


Remember That I Am Thy Creature

by SpectralScathath



Category: RWBY
Genre: Gen, I'm giving Watts the secondary Frankenstein allusion he deserves, v subtle nuts and volts if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:22:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23023180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpectralScathath/pseuds/SpectralScathath
Summary: “It was on a dreary night in Atlas that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the teal green eye of the Creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.”Clover Ebi, Captain of the Ace Ops, is dead. But Tyrian is not one to let an opportunity like this slip by, and Arthur is always one to indulge him.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 12





	Remember That I Am Thy Creature

Tyrian practically skipped along, tail swishing in the air behind him as he reached the end of the hall. He turned to survey his trail of destruction, robots and prison guards turned into an art form of anguish and shreds. He clapped to himself, a giggle bubbling up in his throat as he went back to grab himself a souvenir, blood clinging to the bottom of his boots as he stepped in a sluggishly growing pool of it.

Now, with a new Atlesian military hat perched atop his head, he felt quite fetching. After all, one must look their best when breaking the good doctor out of his prison cell. Oh, how he couldn’t wait to tell him all about how awe-inspiring their goddess’s entrance was, how he had nearly sobbed with glee from the sheer beauty, the power, the magnificence!

Truly, Salem was the only truth in this world, and she would bring Atlas to ruin. He was so blessed to be a servant to a deity such as her, and he had gotten to indulge so much of his bloodlust on this fine night, he hoped that his work setting the stage truly pleased her.

He had never felt such a purity of joy like this as he had on the night his queen came to collect him, when she had chosen him as her reaper, her hand of death in this world of the unworthy. When he had been reborn as her humble servant. He felt he could plunder all mankind, conquer all the odds, just as he had conquered and broken his dear sweet little bird’s heart.

What a marvel it was to be so alive, on such a night like this! He felt he’d live on forever with Salem’s blessings at his back and his blades at his side. It was a truth that no one could deny, that his goddess was here to take Atlas by right of conquest, to show the world that now and forever there was no mere mortal who could dare to oppose her. What a feeling of being alive, while an army of nightmares came to reap what Tyrian had sown.

Well. Him and his dear darling doctor.

Speaking of, he checked the door into the maximum security wing, where all the arrested criminals with activated auras were kept. Aura turned a mere man into a monster, after all! There was no battle a man with aura couldn’t survive. At least… until that pretty little protection was ripped away.

His fingers curled at the thought, licking his lips and teeth as he remembered how lovely it felt to tear away the little lamb’s soul shield. Dear Robyn, leading a lamb to slaughter? Tsk tsk. She was a fascinating target, one he would love to spend a few days with. Such fire and pride in pretty lavender eyes, wouldn’t he love to watch them drown with fear?

He would have to beg his goddess for such a chance later, delighted at the hopes that he could grovel at her feet like the devout beggar he was. Perhaps she could leave those ace operatives alive as well, wouldn’t they make fine prey to hunt. Oh yes, the little dog had shown himself to be the omega of his pack, full of nerves and desperation.

He would be the one Tyrian would leave alive the longest. He’d kill him soon enough, of course, but his time in Mistral had been a period of experimentation, of artistry, and he had found that the knowledge of an impending doom created a tension so thick that he could sink his teeth into it, if he didn’t sink them into his victims.

As for the others… he had very few opinions on Zeki and Bree, though he would definitely make sure their ends were as painful as he could, it wouldn’t be fun otherwise, but the strong Elm Ederne? A Vytal champion, a woman who seemed to pride herself on being as unbowed and unbroken as her namesake?

Oh, how exciting it would be to bring a sweet miss like her to her knees! She and Miss Hill would definitely be worth taking his time with, if he was granted the permission to slaughter them.

He grinned ghoulishly and checked the security door. Ah, fingerprinted, a clever move, but one Tyrian could easily bypass. All he needed was to find the highest-ranked corpse and- yes, there we go. He cut the hand off the man and practically danced towards the door, testing each finger before one beeped and the door unlocked.

He giggled and tossed the hand over his shoulder, doffing his new cap as he slithered in the door, into the hall of all those poor souls in their lonely cells.

He looked in the window set into the first door, seeing naught but a man tossing a ball at the wall, how incredibly _boring._ However, the next door told him that these cells, despite their windows to the outside, had one-way glass on the doors. What a useful little trick, Atlas, allowing the guards to see in while the prisoners could only see the freedom they had so unwillingly lost.

He stalked along, glancing in each door to look for his dear doctor, before he saw a sight that had him howling, tears of laughter threatening to spill down his cheeks.

Robyn Hill herself, the little bird turned to a prowling beast as she paced the line of her cell, her strides long and proud despite her incarceration. She reminded him of a trapped vixen as she slank back and forth, her lips pulled back from a steel-sharp snarl. He noticed that her tattered scarf trailed behind her, slung low like a fox’s brush, her wrist bare of her wings and arrows.

What a _delight_ it had been, to find out what a pleasant burn they had for himself, the explosion’s taste dancing across his tongue in a memory of copper-ash sparks, tingling behind his teeth like eels writhing in a stream, sending warm shivers down his spine to pool in his gut like venom pooled in his stinger.

He watched her for a moment, the room so soundproofed he could not hear a word of her raving, screaming rant, wondering what tune his sweet songbird was whistling to have her worked up in such a fury, her ponytail having fallen free in her rage to turn into a wild mane that gave her the appearance of a lion, perhaps, untamed and primal and burning with the desire to break her cage.

It was glorious, before the thought struck him, and he felt _giddy_ with the possibility of who might be in the next cell, who could be jailed with his lioness, his songbird, his dashing, vulpine outlaw, who thought she was saving lives when she had instead helped Tyrian end them. Her rally had been child’s play, Clover’s death a wonderful result of her temper, her recklessness, her ego and her chaos. How could he not have capitalised on such a wondrous opportunity to deal a blow to his darling crow’s heart?

He was far from a fool, he had seen the looks the bad omen had shot the leader of the ace operative, how they had worked together to combat Tyrian. From the moment Tyrian had realised how much dear Branwen had cared for the fisherman, the lucky Clover had become his target.

He was so, _so_ glad to have succeeded. The desolation in those pretty red eyes had been beautiful. Anguish became Qrow, it seemed. Tyrian had been more than happy to provide.

His glance into the next cell had his chest swell with pride, at the sight of poor unlucky Qrow. Defeat was clear in the slump of his shoulders, his back to the door as he curled on his bunk, on his side, the tattered cape hanging off the edge and his shoulders like a pair of broken wings. Oh, Tyrian was thrilled to be able to call this man his enemy. Perhaps, even, his nemesis?

Qrow had survived Tyrian’s sting, but his scar still remained, Tyrian knew without needing to see under the man’s new Atlesian plumage. But Tyrian’s venom had coursed through his veins, perhaps linking them in a way deeper than the bond of shared blood.

Qrow was his ultimate prey now. They had a score to settle indeed. Qrow’s scar, his shattered heart, and the mechanical whirring of Tyrian’s tail were only part of the strings that bound their fates together, entwined in battle and blood. They still had a rematch waiting in the wings, after all. Tyrian knew that their next one would end in death.

_Patience, Tyrian._

It would be best to let the bird’s wings heal. After all, if he wanted a battle with a true huntsman, he would need to wait for Branwen to be at his full strength, just as before.

The anticipation would make it all the sweeter.

So, with a flick of his tail and a skip in his step, he carried on, hunting for his dear Watts. It was time to get back to work, and Tyrian had an absolutely _delightful_ idea. One he was sure the good doctor would positively adore. After all, they were both predators of a kind, and they worked _so_ well together. Why wouldn’t Arthur dearest indulge him?

Perhaps his goddess would too.

* * *

Watts surveyed Salem’s storm from his cell, a dull ache across the entirety of his face and imprinted on his throat a reminder of the absolute beating James had given him. Well. At least he’d left some aches of his own. How was that arm, James? Did it sting?

If only he’d had a doctor around willing to heal it. Such a _pity_.

Watts would hardly waste his semblance on James, especially not now.

He watched Salem’s storm approaching, amused at the sight of the army of flying Grimm that could easily overcome Atlas’s defences, and the whale she rode on. It seemed Salem had decided that if she was going to leave her realm, she’d bring part of her fortress with her.

He wondered if that meant Hazel and the two brats were there as well. Tyrian would be glad for that, he seemed to positively _adore_ tormenting the youngsters, now that Cinder wasn’t around. Not that it was hard.

Emerald was easy to pick apart, driven by her past where she had nothing, to the point she’d fixated on Cinder as her giver of everything. Food, shelter, comfort. Toss in her passive nature and how much fear controlled her, and it was hardly a wonder that Salem was able to bend the girl to her will as much as she could. To the point of ratting out her saviour to Salem as well, hadn’t that been interesting. He could only assume that the guilt of Emerald’s so-called ‘betrayal’ was festering at her from the inside.

The Black boy, on the other hand, was a much more fascinating cocktail of issues. Chronic Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder was a given, considering his father’s abuse of him, and all his other behavioural issues made him a right little brat. Still, one that was also easily manipulated. For as logical and cold as he claimed to be, he was intensely driven by his emotions. Just like James, in fact.

Now that he cast his mind to it, the tin man and the metal boy really did have quite a lot in common. An interesting little coincidence, nothing really worth pondering about. But still, it was in those strange little asides when he let his mind wander that he tended to find interesting if generally useless information.

Then again, the human brain was designed to see patterns, even when there were none, so perhaps it was less a trivial insight and more his sharp mind falling to base instincts.

The door to his cell opened and his eyes flitted over to it, absorbing and processing all the information in naught but a moment before he picked his words carefully, as always. “A hat, Tyrian? That’s new.”

Tyrian grinned with that sickle smile he loved to wear, yellow eyes bright with his particular brand of madness. Watts never really cast his hand at trying to diagnose Tyrian, even though he probably could. That seemed more like it would remove half the fun the scorpion’s unpredictability brought him.

“Greetings, doctor. Did you miss me, perhaps?” Tyrian placed a hand on his chest, silver tail bobbing behind his shoulders, both poised to strike and simply because Tyrian was most comfortable with his tail held high.

“Of course, Tyrian.” Arthur rose from his seat, unfolding his long legs before he straightened to his full height. He dusted his sleeves off out of sheer habit and adjusted his suit jacket. Hazel could tear his jackets all he wanted but Arthur actually gave a damn about his outfit. Propriety was important, after all. “I would have thought you’d have gone to meet her grace yourself.”

“Without you?” Tyrian feigned hurt and shock, stepping back as though Watts had physically hurt him with his words. “Why, doctor, I am wounded by such an accusation. Of course I will be heading straight to our goddess, but first I wanted to find you. I’ve caused such chaos this fine night, and I have so many ideas for what else can be done. Our work is not yet complete!”

“Very well.” Watts stretched his fingers out of habit, missing his rings. Those had taken so much time to make and now he’d lost both sets. He’d make them again, of course, to not do so would be idiotic, but it was such a hassle. “Tell me all these plans you have while we depart.”

“Oh I will,” Tyrian’s grin returned full force. “But first, I notice your hands look rather bare.”

“A worthwhile sacrifice. I can rebuild.”

“Perhaps.” Tyrian dug a hand into his pocket and opened a fist, a set of four very familiar rings held in his palm. “But imagine to my delight when I found that those weapons of all those they’d confiscated on this night were still being transported to storage.”

Arthur grinned wickedly and proffered a hand, Tyrian bowing deeply before he took it and slipped each ring on himself, humming a jaunty little fourteen-note tune that Watts recognised as one that Tyrian had whistled here and there, the notes rising and falling despite the overall melodic descent. 

Only when each ring had been affixed back in place did Tyrian rise, an eyebrow quirking playfully as he tipped his stolen hat. “I suppose we have the General to thank for the state of your poor face?”

Watts rolled his eyes as he stepped out of his cell, Tyrian gracefully stepping back to allow him passage. Watts rolled his shoulders and offered an arm, Tyrian’s hand slipping through it out as they walked out of the jail. “Indeed. Now what are these ideas you have?”

“Dear Arthur, how do you feel about putting your semblance to good use?” A debauched purr curled around the edges of his words, golden gaze turning heady with excitement. “I have a corpse that I think would make a lovely little puppet for you~”

* * *

Darkness. That was the first thing he could remember.

For a moment, everything was dark, and silent, and maybe a little cold, but it was painless and peaceful. Scarily peaceful, like if he was here for even one second longer he’d slip away into the void and never come back.

Then his entire world lit up with sheer, overwhelming, unrelenting agony, biting at his skin and burrowing deep until it made itself a home in his bones, pain eating him alive from the inside out.

His chest was freezing, so cold it burnt, and there was fire there too, chewing up his heart and choking his lungs. He thought he was dying, he _wished_ he was dying, but he felt more alive then he’d ever been before.

Somewhere along the line he realised he was screaming, that there was pressure on his neck, right under his jaw, right where people checked for a pulse, and that was the eye of the storm. He could feel it. Right there, that point, everything was numb, and every ounce of the torment was radiating from that one point of contact.

Contact? Yes, it was contact, that was someone’s touch, and he wrenched open his eyes to a lightning storm of harlequin green, so bright it seared itself into his brain.

He scrunched his eyes shut again, trying to raise his hands to cover them but he was restrained. He could feel leather bands holding him down, across his forehead, his wrists, his legs, and his torso. The smell of iron and copper and rust filled his senses, the sickly sweet tang of blood and cold sterility.

He could hear the crackle of electricity, cruel laughter as a backing track to his symphony of hurt. It took a second before he figured out he was talking, saying words, screaming at whoever was doing this to him to hurry up and kill him, let him die, he couldn’t take this he couldn’t it was too much _just KILL HIM_ -

Then something was shoved into his mouth by a gloved hand, a set of intelligent green eyes appearing in his vision, meeting his own confused teal. Those eyes were sparking with the lightning that had wrapped itself around Clover’s form, knitting the gaping wound in his torso back together.

Watts raised a brow and removed his right hand from the leather gag he had shoved between Clover’s teeth, top revent the man from breaking them if his jaw reflex snapped shut as his muscles seized. His fingers crooked and curled like he was manipulating a puppet, infusing a spark of being into the lifeless thing under his hands. Tyrian laughed in the background at the show, Clover’s body strapped to the morgue’s table as he convulsed, reanimated and alive once more.

Clover’s howls were muffled now, certainly, but he still made his best attempt at them.

Watts raised his hands eventually, releasing Clover’s pulse point as he surveyed his work with clinical detachment. Sweat streaked Clover’s brow as he panted for air, fingers flexing and curling as his chest heaved, the scar from Harbinger the shiny red of new skin. He turned his head to the side and spat out the gag, limp on the table as the absence of pain left only exhaustion. His chest felt too cold, like ice was bound around his heart, chilling his breath where it sat in his lungs.

He- no, he had been dead, right? He’d looked at the blood, he’d touched at the wound, he’d known from the second Tyrian had ripped the sword three that he would be dead in minutes. No man could survive that. Even if he hadn’t been severely bleeding out his aura had been broken. The chill of Solitas could kill a man in hours. He’d seen people who’d had frostbite set in within minutes.

So… he had died. He had to have died. This was… what was this?

The sound of footsteps made his pulse skip with fear, restrained and tired as he was, he had no way to fight back. He was helpless here and he hated it. He recognised Watts. He recognised the evil chuckles Callows’ made.

Knuckles brushed against his cheekbone in a mockingly soft gesture and he took a page out of Marrow’s book, snarling like a dog and snapping his teeth at Tyrian’s hand. Marrow had been crap at the intensive interrogation training. Unfortunately, the lady playing the role of ‘questioner’ had found out exactly what happened when an ‘enemy’s hand got too close to a trapped dog faunus’s teeth.

No blood, thanks to aura, but Marrow had been _incredibly_ apologetic about the whole debacle.

Tyrian seemed to find it fucking hilarious though, his sneaky yellow eyes meeting the dregs of defiance in Clover’s gaze as he twiddled his fingers just out of reach. “Naughty, naughty! You shouldn’t peck at your friends, my little kingfisher.”

Clover simply set his jaw and furrowed his brows in a glare he knew was far weaker then what he was normally capable of, refusing to engage verbally with the serial killer.

Tyrian didn’t seem to care, his tail whipping happily behind him, almost like it was wagging, as he turned to face Watts. “Isn’t he fun, doctor?”

“I’m sure he is. I could do without that stubbornness, however. I’d rather he gives us the same blind obedience he gave James.”

“That’s-“ Clover’s baritone cracked and rasped as he tested it, rough and rawed from his earlier ordeal. “Not… Going to happen.”

Watts glanced at him, moustache curving with what had to be a smirk. “Mr Ebi. Do you honestly think that my semblance doesn’t come with the caveat that you owe me your life? You work for me now.” He crooked his fingers in that strange puppeteering gesture again. “Now. Lights out.”

Clover’s eyes barely had time to fill with horror before unconsciousness claimed him entirely.

* * *

_“Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity and ruin.”_

**Author's Note:**

> So Clover getting resurrected is a popular enough idea and one that I like, but I want to put my own spin on it. 
> 
> Just for clarity's sake, Watts' semblance here is Resurrection and he's able to manipulate the mind and perceptions of those he uses it on, such as planting sleeper commands in them, or switching up who they view as enemies and allies without really changing who they are.


End file.
